by Mark Oshiro
He hooked a right turn as he passed by Madison Park. He’d been here before, years ago. There was a man who sold cha siu bao from a tiny cart on weekends, and his papa had taken him there after a morning at the Oakland Museum. He’d eaten four of them, one after another, his father laughing as Moss ate the last one slower than the others. “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, mijo,” he had said.
Moss filed the memory away, but it felt like a sign. He had remembered something new, and he let it wash over him. This is what I need to do, he thought, and he pedaled faster down 8th, through a Chinatown that was mostly asleep. A few people lingered outside one of the restaurants that was open late on the weekends, waiting for a table, but most of the shops were dark, their storefronts nothing but metal grates and silence. It was the perfect time, he realized. No one could betray him. Esperanza’s parents couldn’t foolishly intervene. His mother couldn’t stop him. It was his idea, and Moss alone could pull it off.
The light was green at Broadway. He went left, and the building loomed ahead of him, a gray, white, and black monstrosity. He rushed through the light at 7th and rolled to a stop in front of it. He hated the sign that rested above the door: a large silver badge with a smaller, blue star in the center. It was so egregious and unnecessary.
Moss pulled his bike up to a rack on the sidewalk and locked it up with his U-lock. Then he swung his bag back and stood next to the tall flagpole that rose outside the front of the building. He gazed up at the sign. Was this an administrative building? A precinct? He wasn’t sure, but it was right next to the freeway and on the busiest street in the city. It was perfect, wasn’t it?
He unclipped his bag and swung it around, tearing it open. He pulled out the bike chain he’d inherited from Javier, and his heart leapt at the sound of the thick metal links clanging together. He looked back up at the building, then behind him. No one was anywhere near him. He dropped his bag next to the flagpole and took a deep breath. Do it, he thought. If anything, they’ll definitely notice you.
He ran the chain around the flagpole, then turned to press his back against it. It was cold, but his body heat would warm it. He brought the two ends of the chain in front of him and slid the open end into the bulky yellow lock at the other end. He stood there a moment before he could close it. Was this what he wanted?
Moss didn’t hesitate again. He lowered the chain so that it sat close to his waist. It might be a bit snug, but it didn’t impede his breathing. For once, he was the right size around the middle. Moss snapped the lock shut, then slowly slid down the flagpole, his feet planted firm so he could start to squat. He struggled near the bottom, his thighs still burning from the ride over, but he balanced as best as he could, pushing his feet out until his legs rested against the chilly concrete, and then he sat there.
Moss wasn’t going to move until the Oakland Police Department handed over James Daley.
30
He didn’t know what to expect as he sat there, but for the first ten minutes, nothing happened. It was late at night, but people hadn’t left the bars south of where he was, out toward Jack London Square. Moss wished he had had time to replace his phone, though he continued to worry about losing all his texts. He reached into his bag and pulled out the device, its screen still cracked, unable to turn on. He wished he could read everything Javier had said to him. Maybe a new phone would have helped time pass quicker. Until what? he thought. What comes next?
More minutes passed. His heart was still racing from the thrill of it all, and it left him warm, focused. It would only be a matter of time before someone saw him, and then, it would be inevitable. More people would find out, and they’d have to ask him what he was doing. Moss began to run through lines in his head. He had to have the right thing to say! He imagined himself in front of a reporter, a stoic, proud look on his face. “I’m protesting the injustice of the death of Javier Perez,” he would say, his resolve unwavering. “I refuse to remove myself from this property until James Daley is arrested for the murder of my friend.”
No, no, that wasn’t right. Javier was more than a friend. Boyfriend? No, that was too much; they’d never even gotten to have that conversation before he was killed. Moss’s excitement was slowly eclipsed by a sadness. If Javier had survived, would he still have wanted to be with Moss? He shook it away as best as he could. No, he told himself, you have to focus. You are here for a reason.
So what would he say? His lover? Oh god, he thought, that makes me sound so white. No, he had to say his “friend.” It was true. Best friend, perhaps?
He thought then of Esperanza. Of Njemile and Bits and Reg and Kaisha and Rawiya. What were they doing? Was his mom panicking? Was Esperanza still mad at him? Maybe I should check my phone, he thought, then remembered how pointless that was. That’s gonna be a hard habit to break.
He heard a scuffing sound to his left. He started and looked up at a man in black jeans and a flannel shirt, his brown hair ruffled and messy, his hand in his right pocket, digging around. He pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it at Moss, who flinched. Coins jingled as they hit the concrete. “Sorry,” the guy said, smirking. “That’s all I’ve got.”
He walked off toward Jack London Square. Moss gaped in his direction. Did he think I was homeless? There were two quarters and a dime lying on the ground next to him. Did he not see the chain?
A panic rolled through him. What if no one knew he was here? What if he stayed here all night and no one stopped to ask him what he was doing? This is a terrible plan! Moss thought. Terrible, terrible, what were you thinking??? He fished in his own pocket and his fingers grazed his key ring, but he stopped. No, you have to do this!
The anxiety stretched out inside him as if preparing for a long haul, spreading from his chest up into his head and down through his torso. He hadn’t planned this out at all! The impulsivity of the idea had been so attractive to him twenty minutes prior, but now it seemed silly. Trite. Meaningless. How was he ever going to survive the night? What if this stretched out for days? Weeks? Would it actually take this long for someone to react?
“I’ve made a mistake,” he whispered, thinking that if he said it out loud, he’d feel more certain about it. But he didn’t reach into his pocket to find the key. He didn’t try to stand up. He remained exactly where he was.
“I can do this,” he said, not in a whisper, but at a confident volume.
“What are you doing?”
The voice came from behind him, and Moss discovered that in his position, he didn’t have enough leverage to turn around. So he stopped trying to twist about and looked straight forward. “I’m staying right here,” he said, and his voice did not sound confident anymore. “I’m not moving until … until I—”
“Are you stuck to the pole or something?” Moss looked up to his right and terror pumped through his body. An Oakland police officer stood looking down on him, confusion twisting his face. He was middle-aged, a large man who seemed like a giant from where Moss sat. He ran a hand through his blond hair, then laid the hand on his hip as he inspected Moss. “Do you need any help, young man?”
Moss shook his head. “I am fine right where I am, sir,” he replied.
He heard the rustle of clothing, the scuff of a boot on concrete. “Do your parents know you’re out so late?”
“My mother trusts me,” Moss replied. Not exactly a lie, he thought.
There was another scuff. “Son, what are you doing?”
Moss looked back up at him. “I’m protesting,” he said. “I will remain here until my demands are met.” He swallowed. “Sir.”
Moss didn’t recognize the sound he heard at first. He thought the cop had cleared his throat, but the smirk belied what it was. A chuckle. “Are you serious, young man? What on earth could you be protesting?”
“Of course I’m serious,” Moss shot back. “Why would I lock myself to this flagpole if I wasn’t?”
The cop moved behind Moss, and seconds later, he felt a gentle tug on the chain. It d
ug into his waist. The cop walked back around to stand in front of him, and the amusement was still on his face. “That a real lock?”
Moss nodded.
“And you’re doing this for what?”
He gulped. “One of you killed my friend.” He said it with the certainty he had wanted in his voice earlier. “And until his killer is arrested, I’m staying right here.”
The cop chuckled again. “Okay, whatever you say,” he muttered. “You want me to call your parents?”
“No,” said Moss, “but you can bring out James Daley.”
The effect was instant. The smirk on the cop’s face disappeared. “What did you say?”
“James Daley killed my friend, Javier Perez, so I’m not moving until he’s arrested.”
The cop said nothing more. Moss heard the footsteps leading rapidly away from him. A door nearby slammed shut.
And the silence felt terrifying. It closed in around Moss. This was happening now, and he couldn’t take it back. His mind swirled with horrible possibilities, with the fear that this would be it. Had he blown his chances already? Would they cut the chain and remove him? Arrest him? Something worse? The fear pulsed in his throat and it was hard to swallow, and he was tempted. Tempted to unlock himself and hop on his bike and just start pedaling, never looking back. It would be so much easier, wouldn’t it?
The door squeaked open and Moss thought he was going to throw up. There were more steps this time, and he prepared himself. Deep breaths, he thought, and he sucked in a lungful of air, letting it escape slowly. Don’t give up.
Two cops stepped in front of him. They were about the same height; one was white and not the same guy from before, and the other was black. They inspected Moss, looking him up and down, and he felt self-conscious, as if they were judging his appearance. He resisted the urge to stare them down and instead kept his eyes locked forward on their legs. The men said nothing for a few moments. What were they doing? Why weren’t they saying anything?
“What’s your name, son?”
Only then did Moss look back up at them. “Moss,” he replied.
It was the black officer speaking. “We spoke with our colleague just a few minutes ago,” he said, his voice gentle, his eyes dark and comforting. “He told us that you’re here about your friend. Is that true?”
Moss nodded. “Yes, sir. And I’m not leaving.”
The cops exchanged a look, but Moss couldn’t read their expressions. “My name is Sergeant Moore, and this is my partner, Officer Vincent Childs,” he said, gesturing to the white cop. “Excuse me, but if this seems condescending, I assure you it’s not … but are you really locked to that flagpole?”
“Yeah,” Moss said, and his voice quavered. Why did he feel so confused about this?
“Well, I gotta say … that’s a first,” said Moore. “You ever heard anything like that, Vincent?”
His partner shook his head. “Not in all my years here. And we’ve both seen some strange things in our time.”
Moore nodded. “And you really plan on staying here?”
“Yep.”
“All night?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Until what?” Vincent asked. “I’m sorry, I just don’t see what your endgame is here … Moss, is it?”
Moss lowered his head. His plan seemed so ambiguous and meaningless now, in front of these uniformed men. How could they ever understand what he was going through? Why weren’t they taking him seriously? He cleared his throat, the sadness pressing on him. “He killed Javier right in front of me,” he said softly. “Did you know that?” Moss raised his eyes up to the two cops, and he wanted so badly to be brave and calm, but his eyes blurred once more. Shame filled him anew; he felt more like a child at that moment than he had since this whole mess started.
“We didn’t,” Moore said. “I’m sorry you had to see that. It’s never easy.”
Moss scoffed at him. “I watched Daley fire on him, and Javier didn’t have a weapon. He did it out of spite. And now Javier is gone because someone couldn’t control their temper. Do you know what that feels like?”
Neither man said anything, and Moss felt a tear spill out of his eye. He kept going. “His mom is alone. She doesn’t know what to do anymore. I lost someone I could have loved. And he hides from us. He hasn’t even apologized or anything.”
Vincent pivoted on his feet, and Moss could tell he would have rather been anywhere than right in front of him. “Well, I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” he said. “Your friend shouldn’t have been trespassing.”
The air went out of Moss, and with it went all of the grief that had been piling up inside of his body. In flew the rage, and he actually laughed at the cops that stood there. “You are so predictable,” Moss said, and his anger gave him the boldness he’d been looking for. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you blamed Javier.”
“Now hold on, son,” Moore said, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. His thick brows were creased above his dark eyes. “We’re not blaming anyone. What my partner was trying to say is that it’s just not that simple.”
“Maybe not to you,” said Moss. “It seems real simple on my end. Your buddy shot someone and killed him and there was no justification for it in the first place. It is that simple.”
Moore lowered his hands, but his mouth stayed shut. He exchanged another look with his partner; this time, Moss could see the concern. “You really aren’t leaving, are you?” Moore said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Jesus,” Vincent muttered. The two stood there a few more seconds, and then they walked away without a word. It was then that Moss noticed what the two cops had been blocking:
A small crowd. He counted them—twelve people—and saw phones raised in front of a few of them. As the door behind Moss shut, two of the people darted across Broadway. One of them, a thin white woman with her hair pulled back from her face, lowered her phone as she approached Moss. “Are you okay?” The woman stood in the gutter, her phone at her side. “Do you need help?”
“I think I’m okay,” Moss answered. “Just a little wired, that’s all.”
The second person, a brown man with long black hair that fell down his back, was shaking his head. He raised a skateboard up and tucked it behind his head. “They harassing you over something, man? You need backup?”
“Backup?” Moss shook his head. “Nah, I think I’m okay.”
The man knelt beside him and reached out a hand gingerly, running his fingers over the thick links of the chain. “Wait, did they do this to you?”
Moss laughed at that one, thankful for the relief it gave him. “No, no, not at all. I did it myself.”
“But why?” the woman asked.
Moss took a deep breath. “Javier … my friend was the kid who got killed last week at my school. During the walkout.”
“Oh my god,” she said, and then she sat down next to him and looped an arm behind his head, pulling him into a strange hug. “I’m so sorry. I read about that online.”
“Are you protesting, dude?” The man’s eyes got wide when he said it. “Oh man, that’s bold. Respect.” He held out his hand for a fist bump, and Moss smiled and obliged him.
“Thanks, I guess,” Moss said. “I had to do something. They can’t get away with it.”
“Then I’ll stay here with you,” the other man replied, and he promptly sat down on his skateboard to Moss’s right. “My name’s Enrique.”
“Moss,” he said. “And you don’t have to stay, man. This is my thing. I gotta do it by myself.”
“Well, I’m staying too,” the woman said, and she stuck her hand out. “Hayley. Nice to meet you, Moss.”
“You’re kidding me,” he said as he shook her hand. “Seriously, you don’t have to stay here.”
Hayley leaned in and Moss had no time to pose for the selfie she took. “If you don’t mind, I’m putting this on Twitter. More people need to know.”
His mouth drop
ped open. “Wait, really?”
“Dude, that’s such a good idea!” Enrique said, then pulled out his own phone. “You okay with that?”
Moss’s head swirled, shocked by this turn of events. “Yeah … I guess, man. I hadn’t really thought that far.”
Enrique laughed. “You gotta use social media, amigo! How else are people gonna find out about what you’re doing here?”
Amigo. He remembered Javier using that on him, but Hayley interrupted his thoughts.
“I’m already getting replies,” Hayley said, and she turned her screen so that Moss could see the notifications coming through. “How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. An hour maybe? I kind of lost track.” He looked up then, and people were now standing in the street in front of him, snapping photos. One woman was recording a video, and as she stepped closer, Moss could hear what she was saying. She was narrating.
“And I was just walkin’ down the street, headin’ to get a drink with my friends, and this is what I come upon.” She pointed the camera at Moss’s face, and he grimaced a little. “The cops were harassing him, but he’s okay now. Aren’t you?”
“Uh … I’m fine, yeah,” Moss said.
“Why are you here?”
Moss gulped. He’d have to get used to repeating himself. “I’m asking for justice for Javier Perez,” he said, thankful that he wasn’t tripping over his words this time. “He was shot and killed by the Oakland Police Department at West Oakland High during a peaceful walkout.”
The woman pressed something on the screen of her phone, then lowered it. “It’s going up on Snapchat,” she explained. “Thank you for what you’re doing. Honestly. It’s about time someone stood up to them.”